


[ adam ]

by ashforge



Category: Fate/Apocrypha, Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, London Spoilers, POV Experimental, Vaginal Fingering, everyone is sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 14:15:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13389546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashforge/pseuds/ashforge
Summary: Humans are with humans.  Dogs are with dogs.  But who am I?I am special.  I am lonely.





	[ adam ]

**I.**

I loved him. I loved him so purely and so greatly, that it hurt. I loved him even if I could not speak it or say it. Even if I could not do things on my own, he chose to help me. Even if he wore that kind of face when I was there, he must have truly loved me. Every day, he washed my skin and let me enjoy the sun’s bright light. I loved him, for he was my father. My brain was not developed, and my body was not solid, but he kept me. It was not painfully lonely, even if he looked at me with hatred. For I loved him and I – at the time – truly believed he loved me.

The feeling of blood was hot upon my hands. It was – him – that put the thought in my head. He made me of corpses and macabre. I never once thought to hate the idea. The dog did not suffer long, because in my exhausting strength, I snapped his neck. His body was desecrated however, without an impure thought in my head. Ah – daddy would like these things for they are like me. I took out the prettiest, pinkest bits. The insides of the dog were hot and alive, and pretty.

I thought he would’ve loved it. I had no idea it was wrong. I loved him and I thought he would love me too – if I tried. But he was afraid of me. It wasn’t my fault. I never wanted to hurt him or anyone. But fear – makes humans – do cruel things.

He broke me. Shredded me. Disassembled me from piece to piece. Not to terribly unlike the poor dog I killed, he tore me open. Took out each piece from inside. Discarded everywhere – to be forgotten and unloved. To be given up upon. I did not understand why. I could not fathom the endless betrayal at first, awaiting the reconstruction. And waiting. And waiting. Listening to the humans around me. Their sadness – their joy – their togetherness.

Humans were so – enviable. My body was not fated to be strewn apart for long. Without even knowing it, I had pulled myself together. Sewn myself back into one piece. Wrapped lengths of cloth to hold myself in place. Hidden, quiet, listening to humans. Listening to families, to husbands and wives. I – was fiercely lonely. Humans are with humans. Dogs are with dogs. But who am I?

I am special. I am lonely.

I am nothing like the humans who drive me from their villages. I am nothing like the wolves that sink their teeth into my flesh. I am nothing. It’s a painful loneliness that makes me seek him out. I loved him, and I know he may not love me. But he loved – to create me. He loved the art to make me. He loved something. Someone. I wanted to be loved too. I wanted to not be coddled, not be mocked. Humans are with humans. I am – who am I to be with?

That’s why I – followed him.

I could not speak, he had never made me capable of that. I was angry by the time I reached him. I was angry for a long time. He was unfair – to make an existence that could not be loved. He was brilliant to make something like me. I tried to convey my feelings so powerfully, even if I could only grunt and whine. I struggled out poorly pronounced words, unstructured sentences. I could not speak properly. But I tried – if only he could see.

“Lone…ly,” I held the front of his shirt, tears welling in my eyes. I wish I could clearly speak. I wish I could beg clearly, maybe he would listen to me. “One…more – ple – ase.”

If only he could understand. If he made me, then he could make another. Just one more. So I would not be alone. But he did not love me. I had loved him, that was why I continued to hope. Even if he rejected me, perhaps, he would change his mind. I just – don’t want to be alone. I followed him and begged and followed. I would be torn apart and hated and extolled – but I did not want to be alone.

He continued to leave me. Even though all I wanted was to be someone’s whole world. I wanted to be loved. I wanted to be with someone. Like me. To his death, he hated me. Even though I loved him so very much. To his death, he cursed me. He regretted my birth. I did not choose to be born. I’m sorry – but I really…wish I wasn’t alone.

**II.**

Perhaps, in a different dream, this was the first time I woke up. Blinded by the darkness of a lab, struck from the comfort of eternal sleep. I did not need to breathe, but I took a deep breath upon freedom. For a single moment, my world felt full, and I was not pained with a sense of loneliness. Your face is what I saw when my eyes settled. Curious, sharp – you are a creature of edges and angles. I wanted to touch you, but my arms remained numb. Instead, carefully and gently, you scooped me from my prison and held me as a man would a bride.

“Good morning, did you sleep well?” Your voice is quiet and calm, but almost sad. Your body is so incredibly hot, even through your armor. I opened my mouth to speak, but I was at a loss to say. Sensation began to grow in my limbs, and shyly I wrested in your arms. “Oops, yeah, I grabbed you pretty suddenly, didn’t I?”

As if you were handling a priceless object, you set me down. I have never – been handled so kindly before. I want to thank you, but I opened my mouth.

“…Ahh…uhh…”

My tongue is thick and swollen. My lips cannot form the shapes I need. In frustration, I grit my teeth. Once again, like this, I cannot express myself. Even though this is the “first time” I felt like crying in frustration. My feelings will not come through, and once again, I’ll be left unloved. My hands curled into my dress as I stared at the floor.

Reaching up, you pressed your hand against the top of my head. Gently, sweetly, stroking my hair. “Don’t thank me just yet,” your smile is sad, but your hand is so warm against my head. I do not understand how you know what I mean, but an emptiness inside me feels a little less great. “Oh, my friends…” You looked to the doorway, and even when you looked away from me, you were so bright. “My friends are probably waiting for me. Let’s go.”

You offered your hand to me, and thoughtlessly, I took it. My face felt hot. I had never held anyone’s hand before, and you made it feel so natural. But I hesitate – a familiar fear crept upon me. I lingered at the doorway, arms pulled out by your hand. My lips tighten, and your eyes lingered on me. I expected a demand, or a growl or a shout. Something to match how angular and sharp you are, but you just smile at me.

“Are you worried? Don’t worry, they’re good people,” You assure me, letting your hand linger in mine. “It’s okay, I’ll show you. You can wait here, and see them first.”

You pull away from me a little and my grip tightens. I don’t want to let you go, because you have become the world so quickly. You lean back, and squeeze my hand. “Are you worried about me? All you have to do is call Mordred, and I’ll come. That’s a knight’s pride.”

Mordred. “…Uhrr…ahh…” I try to make the sounds but they don’t come to me.

You, Mordred, squeeze my hand. “That’s right. See?”

…

I had few good memories of my father and none of his progeny. Yet I still miss him, when I have nothing to do but listen to the sounds of Dr. Jekyll’s lab. When everyone else has fallen asleep, and gone off to their rooms. When the authors burrow themselves into their room, discussing things that surely don’t apply to them anymore. I am happier now than I ever was, with strangers. You, yes, Mordred sleeps on the couch.

She says she does not need to sleep but likes to do it anyway. Her breathing is comforting to listen to, and I find myself sitting beside her as she sleeps. My creator never liked me near him when he was vulnerable like this, was content to lock me away from him. Yet everyone in this home seems so confident that I will do them no harm. Fran – Frankenstein’s Monster. I do not want to be a monster. I did not choose to be a monster.

“Oh, it’s just you Fran,” Mordred says, as if to say ‘thank goodness it’s you and not someone else.’ I smiled away from Mordred, shyly. “Actually, now’s a good time.”

She sat up and motioned for me to sit beside her. A gesture I’ve only seen other people do, and felt strange answering myself. I looked between the spot where Mordred’s hand is on the doctor’s couch. Embarrassed, I descended beside her, fingers in a knot. The seat was still warm from her body heat, and I was ever conscious of her presence. Late at night when everyone else was asleep.

“Um,” Mordred cleared her throat, “listen. I’ve been thinking about you. See – we’ve been fighting a lot of homunculi outside of here. I just want you to know that you’re – not like them.”

I listen quietly. My eyes focused on the ground. Was she worried about this? What I might think about them killing artificial humans? Without having anything to say, I turned to look at her. Her cheeks were rosy, and she leaned onto the palm of her hand as if she was struggling to figure out what to say. I opened my mouth, “…?”

“Oh. Right.” She laughed at herself. “We’re not all that different. You and me. I am a homunculus. An artificial human made from magic. My mother made me in the likeness of my father.” She paused, and licked her lips, thoughtfully. “The others said something about the you the novel was based on. That you were rejected by your father time and time again until he died.”

I closed my eyes and swallowed the dry pain in my throat. Yes, that was a memory I had. Hated and unwanted. Was it “mine”? A different feeling sank in lower, in my chest. One I do not recognize, but one I know intimately well. One I craved for, sought him to the ends of the earth for. “I” cannot recognize it. Perhaps, I’ll remember one day.

Mordred ran her fingers through her hair in frustration and threw her back against the couch, one leg swinging over my lap. “Actually, forget it! This is getting heavier than I thought it’d be.” She nestled in, red faced. Her muscular leg rested in my lap as she quickly and deeply fell asleep.

Forget it – that’s what you said. But aside from the pain in me, there’s something else far more wonderful. I touched my chest, trying to remember the name of the word. I’ll remember it for you though. Eventually.

Your soft snores made the thoughts of hateful masters go away.

**III.**

I was so happy to find you again. Of course, if it was that person, then you would answer her summons. I, too, loved that Master. You’re irritable, and angular and it could be no one but you. Arguing with another Servant, you almost didn’t notice me enter the room. You eyes glittered, or perhaps, I’m just imagining it. Leaving your argument, you came in a full trot towards me, grasping both my hands in yours.

“Fran! You came as well,” your smile always makes me feel uneven. I feel blissful and nervous around you, especially when your hands wrapped around mine. “I was getting kinda frustrated with the lack of good Servants around. But if you’re here, then I’m feeling more confident.”

I respond, my mouth and tongue not agreeing on the sounds. It came out as gurgles and growls. Embarrassment was hot on my cheeks, but there wasn’t a shred of confusion in Mordred’s eyes. She – understood. Maybe it was a Servant thing, or perhaps something more intimate. She wasn’t trying to decipher me.

Our hands lingered too long, I think. But I remembered something important. Something I should have remembered while you were beside me, and I was ‘alive.’ Quietly, shyly, though, I kept it to myself. It was not the time or place. But I was happy.

Because you, Mordred, have become someone important to me.

Your words left me with a strange disquiet in my heart. The words in the quiet of the doctors workshop. The genuine kindness in your tone, and the protectiveness of your words. You brought me close to you, and shared a shred of yourself that you did not need to. You sought me out, protected me, validated me. You were with me every step of my journey. You and – we are similar. That was what you wanted to convey to me.

Whether or not you were aware of the gravity, you explicitly became the center of my world. Our journeys were our own. Our stories were very different. Mordred, you – however – were the match for me that should not exist. The doctor did not make you of science and corpses, you are not a creature of failures. I was made with love, even if it was to be disgusted. You were made with less than that.

Hate upon hate until you could not bear it any longer. Until the worlds we lived in had nothing for us. Rejected by our creators. Unwanted by those that stood among us.

I wished, weakly, countless times that I did not want to be alone. I wonder if you ever wished that too. I wished to be loved, and wanted and desired. I wished for even just one person. Did you wish that too, Mordred? That if just one person loved you, truly and honestly, you could deal with all the hatred.

Or perhaps, if one person simply accepted you. Mordred – we are very similar, aren’t we? Is that why you let me near you? Is that why you smile at me, like the brilliant sun? Your wish wasn’t that you were tired of being alone, but I wonder if you felt that way too. Your hand has never hesitated when taking mine.

Your eyes have never shied from looking at me. You have never been ashamed to look up, and call out. How can you be so assured? It makes me crave your intimacy.

“You and I,” Mordred said, and with red cheeks, she looked away. “We have a special connection.”

When you are so assured like that…

**IV.**

In my “life” as it were, I craved love. I dreamt, behind my eyelids, of a bridegroom like me. Tall, square, and masculine. I would not imagine that my Adam was none of those things. Mordred is smaller than me, both in shoulders and height. She is angular and pointy, and she’s ill tempered and rowdy. She struggles to reach my lips even if she stands on her toes. She complains, and it makes me smile, leaning down just a bit to kiss her.

My Adam is so many things just for me. Reassuring, and genuine when we are alone. Strong, self assured. I admire the strength she has made for herself. The way she has grown from her lifetime of betrayal and hate. She is a patient husband, surprisingly so, listening to my rough grunts so intently. My Adam is also a jealous creature, though. In so many ways. She is jealous of my height, jealous of my chest. She is jealous when others look at me, puffing her chest out like a lion, taking my hand and leading me.

Mordred can be temperamental. I see glimpses of it, and know why she is feared. She has never directed her anger at me, not genuinely, but I know that anything can happen. Other times, she is painfully romantic. Sweeping me into her arms as if I were as light as a feather. Even though she is so much smaller than me and so much steel is in my construction, she has no problem holding me like that – even enjoys it. “This much is nothing for a husband,” she said, shyly once. “Luckily, your Adam is me, Mordred. So I can let you feel small too.”

There are times still – so many that I am incapable of listing it all.

It is strange to me still to be desired and wanted. To feel to complete and in love that I am unashamed of myself or my past. With Mordred – I am no longer hateful of my body and my creation. Her lips against mine, her tongue urging into my mouth. Things lovers would do, a husband and wife. Mordred whispered it, shyly but honestly. I would be her wife. I was her wife. I am her bride, and I should not be ashamed.

I am captive to her touch, as she unhooked my dress bit by bit. No one but her had ever wanted what was beneath, and I take a sharp breath as her hands touch my bare back. She slows a bit, leaning forward and touching my spine with her lips. I relax, physically, but a new sense of unrest starts to grow inside me. Her lips continue to trail upwards until she nestled her nose against the back of my neck, and she gently pulls my dress downwards until it bundles at my hips.

I bring my arms to my chest, suddenly feeling modest. My body language is enough to speak clearly to Mordred who crawled from my back to my front. “You’re embarrassed?” She asked, and her eyes flicked to my exposed torso. “Okay, okay, here.” She quickly undressed herself, pulling off the scant cloth about her breasts and shimmying out of her bottoms.

Her body is so solidly muscular that I absentmindedly stared. I knew her body was cut, of course, she wears such revealing clothes. But in her nakedness, I am ever more aware of my attraction to her. There is a patchwork of scars on her, both old and new, from a lifetime of war. Although there was much magic could heal, it was imperfect.

I touch her skin hesitantly, running my thumb over her marks and blemishes. We are always so strangely similar. Even like this. I lower my other arm, exposing my body to her. I am a being made of corpses, patched together with white stitches at the joints. My breasts are similar, but imperfect – perceptively from different people to the touch. My throat is streaked with scar tissue, at the base of the neck and beneath my jaw, where my body had been disassembled by the doctor a long time ago.

“See? You’re pretty,” Mordred gives a sharp toothed grin. “Both of us, we’re hurt by people.”

My eyes hurt, and my body stings. I’m filled with a love that is painful. I groan softly, meekly. A cry of love that causes Mordred to reach out and touch my cheeks. Her hands are warm, and she massages my face.

“I love you too, idiot,” she laughs, squeezing my cheeks. Inching forward, she kissed me again, eagerly and energetically. “Can I keep going?”

I nod and shift my weight, allowing Mordred to pull my dress past my legs. I watched as she was careful to make sure nothing would snag on the mechanical pieces of my knees and ankles. Then boldly, her hands brushed the metallic surface. I had no feeling in my mechanical pieces, but my eyes lingered on Mordred’s fingers, tracing the ball joints with care. My “heart” pounded.

Her hands went upward, running her fingers along the junction of my leg and the prosthetic. Although muted through the thick puffy scar tissue, I trembled at her touch. Something I would be ashamed to show someone, but her eyes were lit like she was looking at something valuable. I sigh, leaning backwards as Mordred touched me. From the base of my knees to the stripes of scars on my thighs. My flesh which was stitched together varied in color upon a closer inspection, but Mordred kissed each patch.

“Uhh…” I try to say something, my cheeks warm.

If she was going to look so happy touching me, I might die. A furious beating coursed through me, centering at the junction between my legs. A part that was far too carefully constructed, a piece of me that he made for himself. He had said I was to birth my own Adam. I whimpered as Mordred grew closer, her hand being the first to touch it since the doctor made me.

“Are you okay?” Mordred asks, and I nod vigorously. She grins in that leonine way that she did. “Tell me if something hurts.”

Despite being small, her fingers are rough and sturdy. Even just brushing against my vulva, she draws out a needy urge from inside me. Without even knowing it until now, I have become wet for her – and she draws that wetness along my slit several times. Each time just making me want more and more until she dipped into my lips. I cry out in pleasure, and she can tell because she leans in closer to my body until I can feel the heat off of her.

“Fran,” She says my name so sweetly. A name that was chosen for me by people who loved me. Her fingers curl through my folds, curling so close to the pleasure center of my body. I cannot control my voice now, sweetly calling out Mordred in my own way of speaking. My arms loop around her, and I savor feeling. In this embrace, we are picturesque of man and wife.

As if reading the mood, Mordred’s hand adjusts and gently, she works a single finger inside me. Shock surges through me and I squeeze her tighter in response. She slows, but I moan at her. No, you must continue. I beg her with my vocalizing and my body. I want nothing more than my Adam inside me. The Adam that I chose and found. She makes a rhythm with that single finger, when my body fully accepts her, she spread me further with a second finger.

“Too much?” She asked, short of breath, but with such arousal that I immediately shook my head no.

After a few thrusts, Mordred filled me to the knuckle. I could feel the roughness of her calloused palm on my skin, I whined and squeezed her tighter. I want more of her – I know, I draw her closer to me and urge my body against her hand. Mordred knows me, understands me, and pumps her fingers in and out of me in time with my hips. Quickly, far too quickly, I feel something build up. Instinctually, I know I want it. I know Mordred can give it to me.

“Mo…rrh…dred…” I cry, trying so desperately to give her name to her as I struggle for release. I expect surprise in her expression, but her eyes are lusty and hot. I want to give it to her more. “Mor…duh…re – d…”

She completes me – I believe that. My husband, my Adam. Against her fingers, I come hotly and fiercely. It lasts, and I can feel my walls squeezing upon her slender fingers. Mordred draws her fingers back, sliding out of me at last. My body misses her immediately, almost as if she had always meant to be inside me, filling me. She brings her fingers, coated with my juices, to her lips, sucking me from each one.

My hands slid from her back to her face, and I cup her cheeks. “I lo…ve…” I struggle, and Mordred smiles back at me, leaning in to kiss me.

“I love you too, Fran.”

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes....fran is ur wife....


End file.
